The Cowboy Kid
by TheViewFromTheAfternoon
Summary: Sometimes you think you're the only one with problems. But you're wrong about that. Things are rough all over.


**The Cowboy Kid**

The truck crunches to a halt in the gravel parking lot. The sound of Hank Williams bleeds out as the door to the bar swings open, the illuminated sign in the window flickers as the light in the _M_ dies, and the _er_ at the other end flashes on and off, so that every other second it reads _ill_. Pretty much sums this place up. Stopping here is a bad idea.

But what the hell. I'm here now so I might as well stay for one beer. Maybe it'll do the pair of them good to worry about me for a change, see how it feels to not know where _I_ am. Though more likely they're glad I'm gone. Enjoying their freedom without me there looking over their shoulders constantly and fussing over them like some old woman.

The roadhouse is surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night. A wave of sticky heat swallows me as the door swings shut, and I start to pick my way through the sea of bodies. Winding and weaving through the crowded room, so that even before I get to the bar the plaid cotton of my shirt is already clinging to my back, heavy beads of sweat are forming on my brow. Two-Bit has some wild theory that Buck wants it this way, that he nailed the windows shut years ago, in the hope of getting the guys drinking more and the girls wearing less. I'd laughed when he'd said it, told him no way was Buck that smart a businessman. But judging by the amount of cash being handed over the bar and the number of couples heading towards the rooms upstairs, then perhaps he was right, after all.

Elbows resting on the counter, I order a beer, scanning the room for any familiar faces. And I guess it must be my lucky night or something, and I ain't gonna have to be sociable after all. 'Cause there's no sign of Two-Bit or Dallas, despite the amount of time they spend in this dive. Nor any of the guys I used to call friends. The ones I'd buddy around with up until a few months ago, talking football and chasing broads. Not even any of what I guess you'd call my new social group—the other men off the construction site, although that's hardly a surprise. They tend to favour Murphy's bar, are mostly of the opinion Buck's place only caters for underage drinkers and rodeo hicks. And going by the crowd in here tonight, I reckon they're probably right. Not that I can talk. Not when I'm as underage as everyone else. Which is crazy, when you think about it. I'm allowed to be a guardian to two teenage boys, be expected to work and run a household, but I can't even legally buy myself a goddamn beer yet.

I'm leaning against the bar, sipping at my beer and minding my own business, when Tim Shepard saunters in. He doesn't say a word, but people turn to look at him, the crowd parting like the Red Sea before Moses as people get out of his way, and he's at the bar in no time, slides into the gap beside me.

"Curtis." He nods a greeting in my direction.

The girl working the bar appears out of nowhere, sets a bottle in front of him before he even gets the chance to order. "There you go, Tim, on the house."

I don't know why, 'cause he was always smart, determined. But it still surprises me that the quiet, dark-eyed kid, who used to play Cowboys with me and Soda, is some big-shot gang leader these days. That he has people falling over themselves to keep on his good side. When all I see when I hear the name Tim Shepard is the skinny boy he used to be, running around the patch of scrubby grass in the play park, that rusty toy pistol he was so proud of clutched tight in his hand. His kid brother following him around like his shadow.

"Cheers, Maggie." Tim drops a handful of loose change onto the bar, then pulls out his cigarettes, lights one. "What?" he demands, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and it's only then I realise I'm staring at him.

"Why'd you bother?"

His brow creases into a frown, not getting what I mean.

"The beer." I explain. "Why are you still paying when she said it was free?"

Tim lets out a low laugh. "Nothing's really free, is it, Darrel? So maybe I don't wanna wind up owing anything to Merril, have that come back and bite me, 'cause by drinking his beer he somehow thinks I'm obligated to him." Tim's still watching me, his dark eyes boring into me, like he can see inside my skull, read my mind. One side of his mouth twists up into a smirk. "Anyway, what brings you here, Curtis?"

I shrug my shoulders, pick at the label where it's starting to peel away from the glass. "Just fancied a beer is all."

"Sure you did." He takes a last drag on his smoke, and stubs it out. Already reaching for another. He holds out the cigarette carton, but I shake my head, I ain't ever been that much of a smoker. Tim rolls his eyes, then pulls another out for himself.

Maybe Soda was right and I am too hard on Pony. 'Cause compared to Tim, he probably doesn't smoke all that much after all. And despite what Pony claims, I really don't enjoy yelling at him all the goddamn time. It's just, well, someone has to, don't they? Now mom and dad aren't—

Shit. Don't go there. Don't think about them. That night. Not _now_. Not _here_.

My knuckles are white from how hard I'm gripping the bottle.

"Why are you really here? Trouble at home?" Tim persists, laughing a short, bitter laugh. "I know that feeling. Curly won't listen to a word I say lately, he'll land himself another stint in the reformatory if he's not careful and there ain't a damn thing I can do about it. And Angela? Jesus. Girl's trying to send me to an early grave, I swear." He shakes his head, cussing under his breath.

I take a slug of my drink, not entirely sure how to answer his question. I mean Tim wouldn't understand anyway, would he? Not when he runs around doing lord knows what and to hell with the consequences. And I don't need him thinking I'm some pussy who can't even keep his brothers in line. Not when Tim seems to be running half the east side these days.

Although, maybe, underneath it all, we aren't so very different. It ain't exactly a secret that Tim's mom hasn't been right since his old man had that accident, and that if it wasn't for Tim then who knows what would've happened to Curly and Angela. No, it's got to be close to ten years now that he's been holding his family together, so if anyone could understand what's going on in my head it'd be Tim. And yet I still can't open up. It's not the way things work round here. Don't show any weakness, not to anyone.

"Like I said, I needed a beer, a change of scene for an hour or so." I mutter, keeping the actual truth of it to myself.

How the evening had started bad and turned to shit quicker than even I could have thought possible. A burnt dinner, garnished with yet another slanging match with my kid brother—over absolutely nothing. Nothing that matters anyway. Just him whinging and whining that there's never any fresh towels. Me setting him straight on how maybe it wouldn't be a problem, if he ever hung them up to dry, instead of leaving them to fester, damp on his bedroom floor. Soda making excuses for him, telling me to _quit it_ 'cause Pony's _only a kid_. Except he's not. Because, as he's so damn keen to remind me, he's thirteen now, and so I shouldn't treat him like a baby. Well maybe it's about damn time he stopped acting like one and then I wouldn't have to.

So that's why I'm here. To get away from the pair of them and be me again for an hour or two. Not Darrel the big brother, the breadwinner. Not the parent, the worrier, the nag. Just plain old Darrel Curtis, hanging out in the roadhouse, having an illicit beer. To be anywhere but _there_.

Luckily, Tim doesn't press me any further. He stands up a little straighter as his attention is drawn elsewhere, onto the half-dozen girls who've strolled in, his eyes following the cute blonde who's deep in conversation with Dal's girl, Sylvia. Or maybe Sylv's not Dallas's girl this week, 'cause those two fall out more often than me and Pony do.

Tim gestures to Maggie to hand him another couple of beers then pops the collar on his beat-up leather jacket, drags a hand through his hair.

"Trying your luck?" I grin at him.

"Maybe. Pretty sure she's got a friend I can set you up with, if you're interested?"

"Nah." I drain the last dregs from the bottle. I mean, what's the point? I ain't got time for a girlfriend, not on top of everything else I'm juggling right now. I make a show of checking my watch. "I should probably get going."

Tim shrugs. "Your loss, Curtis."

He grabs both bottles between the fingers of his left hand, about to walk away, when he glances towards the door, at the most definitely too-young-to-be-here girls who've stumbled in, locking eyes with the giggly dark-haired girl in the heart of the group. Her smile transforming into a stony scowl as she glares back at him. If looks could kill I wouldn't fancy either of their chances.

"Jesus, how many fucking times do I have to tell her, she shouldn't be in a place like this? She's only thirteen," Tim mutters under his breath, the bottles clinking as he places them back down on the bar and strides towards her, pausing momentarily to glance back at me. "Hey, Curtis, the next time you're having a bad day with those brothers of yours, you just thank your lucky stars you don't have a sister to worry about."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading this little story. I hope you enjoyed it :)


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